PTA

You would not believe how nervous I was for my parents to go to PTA the other night.

Well, maybe you would believe me if you had witnessed my behavior in class the past couple of months, or got a peek at my grades.

I don’t mean to be such a bad student. I try to pay attention and get good grades. But that’s for the first five minutes. Then I get bored, and all that goes out the window. Sometimes literally. Like the time I dropped my pen out the window to see if it would go fast or slow. (It went fast. Luckily, it missed the head of the fifth grader who happened to pass by that second.)

Needless to say, PTA is not my favorite night.

As soon as the school hands out reminders, I start to pray that my parents should have a bar mitzvah or wedding that night. Then I crumple the note and toss it in the trash so it doesn’t make it home. But my tactics have never worked, except for one year when my cousin got married on PTA night. Don’t be too happy for me though, because that missed PTA was followed up with a phone call from the teacher that I still shudder to remember.

So, the dreaded night arrived. I was unusually quiet when I came home from school, or so my mother said repeatedly until she got a reminder phone call from the school and quickly discovered the reason for my silence.

My parents looked about as excited as I felt when they left the house amid a flurry of bedtime instructions. (Seriously, why do mothers feel the need to tell you to brush your teeth…every single night?) They looked as though they were going to a seminar on depression. Then again, they’ve been through enough PTA nights to know what to expect.

I wiled away the next hour and a half flipping through my comic book, trying not to think about the events that were transpiring in my classroom halfway across town. Then I brushed my teeth (duh) and got into bed. As soon as I heard the key turn in the front door, I quickly shut my light and pretended to sleep.

Chu-shee, chu-sheee.

My parents were not deterred by my fake-snoring (dumb move on my part, I suppose) and they walked right into my room and flicked on the light.

“Mickey!” my mother exclaimed. She was beaming. Beaming? And, I might add, she only calls me Mickey when she’s pleased with me (my real name’s Michoel.)

Was I in the middle of some strange dream? In the Twilight Zone?

But no, here she was, shaking my arm and smiling so widely I could see her teeth. My father stood behind her, looking equally pleased.

“Mickey!” she repeated. “We’re so proud! Your rebbi just gave us the report of a lifetime!”

“Yes, Michoel,” agreed my father. “I’m so pleased to see you’ve turned over a new leaf. Now I know that you’ve really matured.”

My parents sat down on opposite sides of my bed, talking in unison about how Rebbi said things like “hard worker” and “derech eretz” and I don’t know what else because I was literally dizzy. Literally speechless.

Was my rebbi drunk? Did he mix me up with another boy? Why on earth did he give a report to my parents like that?

“Thanks, Ma and Ta,” I said, smiling weakly. “Sorry, I’m just really tired.” And with that, I turned over and pretended to go back to sleep. In reality, I did not go back to sleep at all that night. I was waiting for the phone to ring with my rebbi calling to say he was sorry, he’d made a terrible mistake.

But in the morning, my mother was equally exuberant, making me a hot chocolate and presenting me with a sprinkle donut to celebrate my “achievements.”

I could hardly look at my rebbi in class the next morning. I was determined to stay under the radar – and for some reason, a little ashamed, too.

I waited three days for the phone to ring. But it never did.

So here I sit in class now, pondering this odd situation. Here I am, class troublemaker, official non-academic (to say the least), sitting here at my desk, looking at Rebbi as he animatedly describes the case of the cow in the mishnah, and wondering once again, what in the world happened here?

Did he realize his mistake? Was it a mistake? Did he just want to play flatter-the-parents?

I think of my parents’ proud faces and I realize that if I play along with this little game, that look may not have to disappear.

Hmm, interesting thought.

I think about that as I open my Gemara and tune into the lesson.